


Chideon Tumblr Fics

by DrGaybelGideon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, M/M, Masturbation, Medical School, Object Penetration, Porn Star AU, ghost au, porn au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 19:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrGaybelGideon/pseuds/DrGaybelGideon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chideon drabbles from horrific to cute med school AU to porn and back!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Every single extra credit in Johns Hopkins Medical school delivered to Abel gift wrapped in hundred dollar bills is still not enough to compensate him for the torments he’s suffered at the hands of its first year mentoring scheme. He’s endured everything, from students simply not turning up to an enthusiastic dissection it turned out his mentee had fallen asleep in the middle of and a particularly traumatic incident where a scalpel had been picked up the wrong way around. Frederick’s about the best of them, he’d supposed yesterday, hardworking to the point of mildly neurotic but pleasant enough to talk to the rare times they’ve gone to get lunch together.  
  
He’s changed his mind today. Frederick’s crying on his floor, reeking of whiskey and legs poking out from under him at odd angles from where they simply couldn’t keep him up any more, tears streaking down his face. Abel can’t see any injuries, thankfully, but that’s not to say there couldn’t be internal bleeding or other, more private injuries-  
“No!” Frederick garbles a protest when asked, seeming as startled by the accusation as Abel was opening the door on him ten minutes ago. “I’m not hurty hurt.”  
 _Hurty hurt._  He bites back a relieved smile at the stupid response. No, this is serious.  
“How do you hurt, Frederick?”  
“Heart wise.” This is far more worrying, given that he’s collapsed.  
“Right. Touch where the pain is, and try and calm down.”  
“No!” Frederick protests again, more clearly this time, then blushes, blood and alcohol pooling embarrasedly under his skin. “I hurt- emotionally. Not physically. Although I did fall up the stairs. I got homesick.”  
  
Abel’s too stunned to feel particularly angry at him, which is good because fresh floods of tears well up in the other man- teenager, he’s very little in his oversized jumper- at the sound of his confession out loud.  
 **Teach struggling students to pass exams!** Abel growls to himself as he pulls a mug from a high shelf. **Earn extra credit and a living wage!** There wasn’t a subclause in there about spending the pitiful earnings on pizza when the tiny wretches he’s tutoring follow him home. How did Frederick even find out his address?!  **Great for a CV!** As a therapist, perhaps.  
He doesn’t mind really. Frederick is tearily grateful for the chance to vent, and pays for the pizza himself, which is nice until he passes out face down in it, unresponsive to Abel’s shakes.  
“Abe, why is there a boy passed out in the recovery position on our couch?” He imagines will be a fun one to explain to his current girlfriend.


	2. Out Of Hours Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick clings post-coitally

Frederick Chilton is suprisingly strong given the fact the only excersise Abel has ever seen him do is lying on his back. Steel cable tendons snake around his waist, and a heavy head rests on his shoulder.  
Frederick’s hugging him.  
This hasn’t happened before, although, he supposes, they’ve slept together three times. Maybe this marks some form of monumental event to the dead weight who’s slowly causing numb to creep through his shoulder.  
“Frederick.” A weak attempt is made to dislodge him.  
“No.”  
“Frederick-”  
“No. I’m going to limp tomorrow, you owe me this.” Abel frowns at both of those. Frederick was prepared enough for this not to do any lasting damage, and he doesn’t ‘owe him’ anything.  
“Beloved Doctor Chilton, do you really want to be caught taking advantage of a vulnerable patient?” It’s supposed to be a threat, a sarcastic cutting warning. It doesn’t come out that way: the same drowsiness that’s slurred Frederick’s words seems to have infected his. Oxytocin, he realises disgruntledly. The cuddle hormone.  
“Doctor Gideon…” The response trails off, and after a moment of silence there’s a long moan of a yawn followed by a blunt nose pressing into his right deltoid. “Shut up.”  
“Eloquent.” Abel relaxes after a minute or so once he realises the alternative is putting his restraints back on and being frog-marched back to his cell. It’s not bad, really, the warmth and contact’s something he’s missed a little and the couch is comfier than his mattress-

Frederick lets out a long death rattle of a snore, clinging a little tighter as he does so.

Abel debates, after twenty minutes of listening to deafening noises comparable to a heard of elephants or the more terminal end of an ENT ward, the pros and cons of adding another murder to his already impressive list.


	3. Chapter 3

Abel stalks through the dark empty halls- it’s an accurate description, the place is huge, but free of the junk that clutters his office and looks almost showroom new- of Frederick’s home, running the blunt edge of one of the steak knives he’d found in the kitchen over the flat edge of his thumb.  
It’s just for show, but fear will probably make this go a bit easier, and if he’s got company, even though it’s a statistical impossibility, it will probably help subdue them for the amount of time it’ll take to get him to the car.  
  
Abel freezes.  
There’s a woman’s voice from upstairs. Moaning.  
Well. At least it’s easier to follow the noise than check each room individually on his way up.  
He pauses outside the last bedroom, debating internally whether he’s cruel enough to interrupt Frederick mid-coitus. But hell, the other man was cruel enough to mess with his head-  
  
Abel barges in.  
Abel stops, unable to properly process the scene in front of him.   
He definitely should have waited for the moans to stop.  
  
Frederick’s sitting on his bed, breathing heavily and maintaining an uncomfortable amount of shocked eye contact as the hand in his pants stills.  
In a corset.  
The moans are coming from a flatscreen television on the wall in front of him, which he must have had to step over a truly startlingly large amount of discarded frozen yoghurt pots to turn on, as the remote-  
Abel doesn’t dare debate to himself where the remote could be.  
“Well, this is awkward…” He attempts, after Frederick’s second moment of unblinking eye contact. Stops the strong urge to ask if he can help him out in any way, because this isn’t what he came for, even though Frederick’s flushed neck would definitely look better with teethmarks in it. “I’ll wait outside.” There aren’t any windows in this upstairs bedroom. He’s not going anywhere. “Try and be quick about it. And put some pants on.” Or don’t. Abel doesn’t mind either way.  
  
Frederick appears, crimson and slightly trembling a few minutes later, clothed in a full suit and tie, which is completely unnesescary, he’s going to have them off very soon any way.  
“Abel, you didn’t-”  
“See anything, your secret’s safe with me. Your organs, on the other hand…” Frederick freezes, startled. The knife does come in handy after all. “We’re going to do this the easy way. Get in the van.”


	4. Casting Couched 4

The phrase ‘Quid pro quo’ will be forever burned into Abel’s mind, a small smirked lie given to him at the beginning of his therapy sessions before the driving started. “We can exchange questions, answer honestly.”  
He doubts either of their replies ever hid the faintest grain of truth.  
  
He learned some interesting things about Frederick in those days, creative lies or not. The man has never broken a bone. Had- the optimal word being 'had’- never had surgery of any kind, let alone major. Paid his own way through college, a confession that was definitely a lie until five minutes ago.  
  
Abel’s allowed 30 minutes of un-restricted internet a week, heavily monitored and a privilege he doesn’t need, but one he’ll take advantage of none the less.  
He watches porn. It’s a disgustingly unoriginal thing to do, crude, but he hasn’t been alone with anyone for longer than five minutes since thanksgiving- no, his little day trip to the observatory- and manages to entertain himself trying to find the server’s pornographic limits. (Whoever set them is fine with 'Man being brutally fisted"  but not the female equivalent. Hmmm. Misandry or a misguided sense of honour?)  
He manages to skip about five minutes into 'Brokeback Outback’- he truly hates watching this, too tasteless, too predictable, likely to end in a 911 call for an ambulance or assault if reenacted at home- before his tolerance for bad puns and abdominal muscles that could only be implants or starvation induced gives up. His eyes wander, dully trailing across gifs of hardcore porn that stopped interested him decades ago.  
  
A very familiar pair of eyes stare back at him.  
Familiar lips stretch around an over-sized cock.  
  
It takes Abel a moment to stare before bothering to click the external link.  
His psychiatrist, always so proud and in control and put together is naked in quite a few of them, recovered from tapes if the quality’s anything to go by. He wonders if they were private, a narcissistic gift to an ex lover brutally betrayed. Wonders whether he cares, decides he definitely doesn’t as he clicks a link at random, still too distracted by seeing Frederick naked to notice what he’s clicked.  
  
No, he deduces as 'Casting Couched 4’,a title dull enough for him to forget in seconds flashes up on screen, it’s professional, it’s got a company name on it. The lighting on Frederick’s- because it is Frederick, he knew it all along but the revelation is still startling- face when he finally appears onscreen is too bright, washes him out. It’s very old porn, then. The face smiling shyly at the camera, clean shaven and thinner and very, very pretty is young too, early twenties but babyish, free of the pudge and lines and stress his later life will end up bringing him.  
“Would you like to tell us your name before we start?” A voice asks off camera. Fingers play with the bottom of his un-tucked shirt, a feigned nervousness believable if he didn’t know the man better.  
“Frankie.” Frederick smiles, and it works, it works because Frankie suits the pretty thing in tight jeans and a tee shirt that’s too large on his slim frame that adult Frederick couldn’t fit now. It’s late 80s, he groans to himself. 'Frankie’ goes to Hollywood.  
“Take your shirt off.” Frederick does, revealing a slightly curved chest, hips still slightly larger than normal for a man of so thin a frame, pretty slim biceps. A small, well groomed trail of hair leading down into tight boxers.  
Abel imagines if he still looked this innocent, this breakable, this much of a twink, their last night out could have ended quite differently.  
“Five minutes, Doctor Gideon.” A guard’s voice, low and poorly hiding an undertone of hatred jolts him roughly from his thoughts, and he thinks. Skips to two thirds of the way through the video after watching for a moment as underwear is slid down well muscled thighs followed by a close up on an unexpectedly large cock.  
“Ohh.” Frederick’s moaning, arching, eyes closed as something jolts him slightly. He’s missed the moment of penetration, he notes slightly angrily, he moment where dear 'Frankie’ predictably tells them he’s never done this before, all big eyed innocence, or that he’s only ever slept with a boyfriend he met at college before being 'deflowered’ on camera.  
No, Abel realises unexpectedly, it’s not a person rutting into him, shifting his hips. Too much whirring. The camera pans out to parted thighs and panting as a machine pushes an object back and forth into him, the thumbs of a man off camera rubbing slow circles into his nipples with nails as the other fingers soothingly rub his ribs. Frederick’s gorgeous, very good, doing so well, he’s reassured as with a hitch of breath it speeds up, blood flushing his face as he bites his lip, adjusting with a small moan to the frequency his pretty body’s being breached. He is good, doesn’t seem like he’s faking the enjoyment he’s getting from spreading his legs for a piece of metal, maybe he isn’t, maybe that explains the surprising calm that occurred when he woke up on an operating table. “Oh god…” He moans, pressing his hips down to tentatively meet it, the little slut- and the door from behind Abel’s head sounds like it’s being unlocked, too fast, Frederick’s not finished, and he’s not leaving without seeing him come. “Please.” Frederick sounds almost as desperate as he feels, the guard’s struggling with his keys and Abel misses it, head snapping back around as white bursts from the tip of the other man’s prettily flushed cock, an unscripted orgasm if there’s no verbal buildup to it. By the sounds of Frederick’s wrecked moans, slightly disappointed as the machine powers down, a powerful one too.  
He’s beautiful at that moment, gorgeous and small and vulnerable, a pretty wrecked plaything with bitten lips and flushed cheeks so gorgeous that semi-possessively, Abel closes the site down instead of leaving it for the guards to see like he’d planned. Jars his wrist later in an injury he hides with gritted teeth, too proud and not sure if they’ll even send him to the new nurse to draw attention to it.  
  
“Frankie.” Frederick squawks with horror their next session, flushing a much lovelier colour than the screen he was watching on conveyed as he protests about a distant cousin. “So you watch your own family using fucking machines, Frederick?”  
“No! I mean- occas- no.” Abel waits a moment, savors the horrified defeat in the other man’s face as he angrily nibbles an age-thinned thin lower lip. “I’m sure you’ve watched my uni mistakes enough times to figure out the direction my offer is going.”  
The irony is almost as delicious as the talented tongue that he tastes moments later after Frederick takes the precaution of closing the door.


	5. A Little Taste Of Leather And Lace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frederick in a collar.

Frederick nervously adjusts the thin strip of leather around his throat, scrutinising it in the mirror in front of him to no discernible opinion. It’s not… unattractive, per say, but it’s not the instant stab of heat to the groin that it seems to be to the man behind him, who’s giving an uncharacteristically hungry look to his back under the assumption he can’t be seen.  
“Not bad.” Abel’s mask is seamlessly back in place when he turns around, eyes their normal juxtaposition of sharp disinterest as they focus on the black leather choker around his throat. There’s something oddly thrilling about the brief unexpected view Frederick’s just had into the other man’s inner thoughts, so he decides to push a little further.   
“Why collars, Abel?” It’s curiousity. The other man’s visibly hard in his boxers, from sight alone, which is unusual: he’s normally got a level of control over his lower half which scares Frederick a little.  
Abel doesn’t answer, just shrugs an arm forward to stroke the skin on his neck surrounding it. Alright, Frederick admits, there’s something a little appealing about the sight, and the slow dawning appeal is helped further by another hand running down his chest and stomach, stroking back and forth as they slowly edging towards his hardening groin. Fingers work their way under the collar and hook, the sudden hitch on his throat distracting him from a hand on his shoulder gently pushing him to his knees. Abel stares down at him, scanning him intently for a minute before seemingly being satisfied by something unknown in Frederick’s face.  
“As well as the obvious practical uses, sweetheart, I don’t think anything’s made you look this good since the corset.”


	6. Exploring Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ((Frederick fucks his cane. Yes there is something deeply wrong with me.))

Therapy sessions with Abel Gideon have never been ethical, and have always been intense. Frederick’s just normally the one setting the limits.

He’s not- well- sexual sadism isn’t a part of Abel Gideon’s MO. But neither was butchering nurses and cutting out tongues. Frederick’s not entirely sure he’s safe, and shouldn’t be as aroused by the thought as he is.  
His lips are bitten, red despite his protests that he has work for the next few days, Abel, all urgency behind them drowned out by the moans he manages to force through the teeth embedded in his lower lip.  
There’s a hand in his pants, pulling, teasing, lightly tracing a thumb over the tip of his cock- it’s intentional, the bastard, the moment Frederick’s hips push up off his couch into the touch, another hand roughly pulls his underwear down, making him whimper, he shouldn’t be whimpering that’s pathetic and this is dangerous and-  
His shirt’s up.  
His shirt’s up and Abel’s shushing him, warm gentle fingers suddenly running over his scar, a comfort and an examination that he leans into without meaning to. At least there aren’t any panic attacks this week, although Abel’s still ignoring his demands not to touch it:  
Frederick freezes as Abel reaches behind him, summoning his fallen cane with one hand with one hand and suddenly gripping him a little too hard with the other.  
“Shh, Frederick. We’re experimenting.” It’s a line he’s heard before in the early days of their therapy, a promise this is harmless, means nothing, doesn’t mean he’s any less straight- if only Abel knew- but also one he murmured during the driving, the injections beforehand. He’s not sure which Abel’s remembering as he touches the metal, cold, too cold to Frederick’s scar, the kind of cold that burns the flesh it touches, and fuck if Abel hasn’t done enough to that long line of skin anyway-  
“Abel!”  
“I’m seeing whether the rumours about scar tissue are true.” Abel moves the hand off his cock to steady his hip, keep him still as he gasps and wriggles away then stills as cold metal strokes slowly up and down his stomach, the icy head of his own cane pressing down on him there are guards outside and he might need them, might get them anyway because a scream’s rising in his throat because as much as he likes being exposed and out of control this is too much, he can’t remember the safeword- now it’s stroking a little lower and that’s less panicky and more arousing. Abel’s gently rubbing it up and down his shaft now and that’s good, still a little cold but warmed enough by body temperature that it’s not painful, the smooth pressure against him is anything but.  
And then Abel’s teasing fingers at his entrance, and he understands.  
“Yellow!” His voice leaves him in a cracked shout, panic setting in before Abel leans back, staring attentively with cane still in hand as he arches an angry eyebrow.  
“Just curious, if I’d yelled that when I was being convinced I was the Chesapeake Ripper, would you have stopped, Frederick?” Frederick’s still breathing too shakily to reply, relieved beyond measure that the Abel with complete control over him now is the older, calmer version, not the hideous vicious thing he managed to implant in the other man’s head. He hopes. “What aren’t you comfortable with, Doctor Chilton?”  
It’s a name he only ever recieves venomously, and this usage is no different. Abel’s angry at him, annoyed that he doesn’t want the walking aid he only has due to the other man cutting him in half shoved inside of him and moved, he’s not coming at the hands of his own cane, not today, not- without a lot more foreplay first.  
“It’s too big.” His reply’s irrelevant to the real reasons, and it darkens something in Abel’s eyes, causes his hands to move again, and the metal head of his cane to suddenly touch the head of his cock, spreading wetness that shouldn’t be there back and fourth, too much, too cold too strangely good to do anything but arch at, sensations frying him as Abel too-gently spreads precome back and forth over his head and opens a bottle cap.  
“You know what else is big, Frederick?” It’s going to be something driving related, needles- fuck- “A further six murder charges.” Abel’s killed ten people, the moment a first lube-slick finger finger slowly moves in and out of him is probably the worst time he could possibly have remembered that fact. “And the head of this.” Abel could be talking about the cane or his own cock, Frederick’s a little too busy closing his eyes and focusing on wet metal moving gently up and down his shaft to bother checking. “So please, Frederick, don’t bother giving me that bullshit.” Abel doesn’t swear often, and accompanies it by a second slightly rougher finger being pushed into him, opening him up a little quicker than he’s used to, a combination of pain and shock he wishes didn’t make him moan as loudly and obviously as he does. “All I’d really have to do to persuade you is call you a slut and tell you how nice you’d look with something this big fucking you, it’s worked before.”

Abel’s right, and he knows he was right, Frederick flushes a horrible colour at the knowledge, tightness in his stomach half-arousal, half nervousness as the other man slowly, far too sensually slicks up his cane, rubbing a thumb back and forth over the head of it in a way that he would beg him for now, and Frederick hates lowering himself to beg.  
It’s too big, he’s not lying to himself anymore, too solid, he’s struggling to adjust no matter how comfortingly Abel’s hands are rubbing large circles into his lower stomach, oddly cold inside him no matter the other man’s attempts at warming it. He’s being monitored, oddly clinical eyes scanning his face attentively, probably in case he goes into shock at the temperature change in his colon, that could happen:  
Abel could kill him like this. He’s stupid enough not to have noticed the danger he’s in until now, this would be a fittingly humiliating way to die, own cane lodged in his rectum and body failing to adjust to the permenant cold Baltimore exists in.  
But he’s not, just like he didn’t kill him the last time.  
Something’s wrong with Abel, he’s apparently delved too far into the other man’s head if he can’t murder him and the thought, although uncomfortable, makes him relax enough to slowly take in another inch.  
And then it retracts, almost out of him completely then back in, sensation too much and immobilising, cutting off the urge to lean forward and touch, even kiss the other man before he can consider it. He’s going to hurt tomorrow, he wriggles slightly and accepts the fact, it’s too much and he’s going to come embarrasingly fast. Perhaps that was Abel’s purpose in doing this, humiliation he’s already achieving with every wrecked noise he’s forcing from Frederick’s mouth, they’re going to get caught, he’s going to get caught-  
The hand pressing down over his mouth indicates it’s a shared fear, but it’s also arousing in the worst way-  
Frederick comes apart a few seconds later, tentatively touching his own cock and muffling a scream as heavy bluntness slams into his prostate, too much, blinding, he’s slumped back on the couch before he even realises the world’s spinning.  
  
“Abel?” The word slips from a tongue nearly bitten off a second later as Abel roughly removes the cane from his body, leaving him empty in more ways than physically,  he’s being checked now, vital signs, making sure he’s still intact and okay, checking between his thighs for a moment that should be intimate but just falls… flat. “Abel, we need to-”  
“If you have a problem with me using you without asking nicely, please do feel free to refer me to one of your more capable members of staff.” There’s anger underlying a tone that screams ‘hypocrite’, anger’s good, anger’s human, anger means there’s some of Abel left. Frederick shuffles his trousers back on and debates exactly what could go wrong if he were to just lean forward and kiss the man, throw arms around him, force him to kiss back, angry, fuck it out, he’s not sore enough not to take a little more of a battering, he could do this. He could also suddenly find himself the ‘Ripper’s’ 6th victim, just as easily, a coin toss he doesn’t dare risk. “Glyceryl trinitrate.” Abel prescribes, Doctor Gideon again as he places the wiped off-cane on his desk and doesn’t look at him as he leaves.


	7. Uninvited Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The constant lingering cold in his house mightn't be the air conditioning.

Something’s followed Frederick home.  
  
He can feel it.  
He ignores it at first. Hasn’t been religious since he was seventeen, has been a psychiatrist for the larger part of his life. He’s been through hellish facial and psychological trauma, the misplacement of objects and far worse lingering, creeping paranoia that he feels entering some rooms of his house is probably just a neurological side effect of long painful weeks being monitored in hospital wards.  
  
Something’s followed Frederick home.  
  
The pens and papers- and a cup of tea that startles him awake one particularly frightening night- that fall on the floor must have just been left too close to the edge of his desk, he justifies to himself. That and his depth perception’s a little odd now he’s only got one working eye. Some rooms are colder than others, but blasting the heating solves that problem most of the time.  
  
Something’s followed Frederick home.  
  
The cold’s not a normal cold, he realises after around a week. It seems to roll like a non-existant fog from doorways, creep up his legs like a hand stroking up his shin. Conveniently absent when he hires a contractor to look for the source of the draft. Strong enough to distract him from reading books some days. He loses three glasses in a weekend, found later in rooms he can’t remember going into.  
  
Something’s followed Frederick home.  
  
Whatever it is that’s disturbing his nights and unsettling him in his waking moments, he realises with an uncomfortable adrenaline clench of his remaining stomach, is not earthly.  
Frederick sits, shifting his feet slightly as they cool, and putting down his crossword exhasperatedly as he works out whether or not to go and put on a pair of socks, prevent the cold biting at his exposed extremities.  
  
That’s when he notices it.  
The glass of Scotch, large and full of the healing ambrosia his torn nerves require, slowly shifts on his desk.  
  
It pauses for a moment. He’s not sure if he even saw it move, he’s not sleeping well, it could have been a trick of the light.  
The glass moves again.  
It falls forward, hits him in the crotch without his hands reacting to cover himself and spills its cold liquid straight into his lap. He jolts upright with a blend of pain and shock _it is not a hallucination_  and backs away from his desk, only really panicking as his back hits the wall behind him with a dull thud. The cold laces a little further up now, moving up to seemingly lace around his elbows, an icy caress that he runs through, smashing his hip off a table and stumbling to the floor as he leaves the room, adrenaline causing his fingers to fumble frantically with the door on his way out.  
He saw it.  
It was real.  
Frederick slams into his bedroom, his inner sanctum, and stammers a terrified plea of protection from the ghost- the thing- downstairs, the first prayer he’s made in decades.  
  
Something’s followed Frederick home.  
  
He knows who it is, the only person it could possibly be. And he knows he- it- is only growing stronger, feeding on the resentment he left over in life, a bottomless well Frederick’s terrified of the consequences of the man tapping.  
Abel’s ghost.  
Frederick stays in his bedroom all day the next day, looking up the numbers for exorcists and debating whether or not he’s convinced enough to phone them.  
It’s a ridiculous idea.  
  
Someone’s followed Frederick home.   
  
Going down to his cellar alone is a worse one.  
  
He decides to do it himself, partially bravery, mostly because he’s too proud to be known as that one pathetic psychiatrist who superstitiously called the Ghostbusters on a draft.  
It’s not a draft.  
It’s icy down here at the lowest point of his home, to the point it feels unnervingly like dead fingers stroking the lining of his lungs with each frigid breath. The goosebumps on his arms prove something is wrong, the thermometer for his wine’s slow beeped warning proof that this is not happening in his head.  
The psychic sites he visited hopefully recommend a beginner’s ritual for ghosts involving salt and a candle, so he does both, lights the little tealight on the floor where he’s kneeling and surrounds himself with a kilogram of salt. “A-Abel?” His voice cracks poorly, a small weak sound he has to clear his throat to try and improve. “Doctor Gideon?” He tries again, ignoring thoughts of a metal gurney with a corpse on it filling the middle of the room as the candle in front of him shifts at the name.  
  
And then abruptly, causing Frederick to hitch a breath, the candle snuffs out.  
  
The light overhead’s on, casting enough light for him to watch, throat closing, as with a soft shush of scratching on tiles, the salt circle warps, something large and blunt and invisible pushing past it towards him, coming for him _Jesus no no no no no líbranos malo_ , he’s running, panickedly throwing himself against the cellar door to lock it from the outside, sprinting upstairs and trying frantically to calm his breathing as the cold finally sweeps away from his feet with the slam of his bedroom door.  
He’s being haunted, and his ritual didn’t work. The panic that thought forces into his chest makes him grab his laptop, book a room in a motel many times lower than his normal price range as he debates, terrified whether poltergeist, ghost Abel, whatever horror his old patient is will let him leave.  
Check in time from 9AM tomorrow, the voice on the phone smiles. No negotiations.  
Frederick’s here for the night.  
The thought’s such a punch to the guts he still has that his breathing calms. He’s probably a little in shock, something he’s sure the man downstairs could tell him properly if he could talk.  
He will stay up all night then. Cover the floor nearest his door in salt and wait. It mightn’t do much, but it’s a warning system if somehow the ghoul manages to break through the door.  
  
After an hour of tense silence, Frederick puts music on.  
A bad idea, which apparently calms his mind enough to sleep.   
  
He wakes with a weight on his feet.  
Frederick doesn’t breathe. Plays dead. Pretends to be asleep, Gideon’s a monster under his bed, harmless, the weight slowly moving, crawling slug-like up his trembling body from ankles to knees and moving past his adrenaline-pricked crotch can’t see him- ribs now, a heavy crush that makes him whimper- if Frederick doesn’t look.  
  
His logic holds. Abel rolls off him unexpectedly, causing a dip and creaked springs in the mattress net to him.  
He’s not going to look.  
He’s not going to look.  
He’s dead if he does.  
  
He’s dead anyway, probably.  
  
It takes twenty minutes for him to build up enough courage to open his one good eye, force it to slowly roll over to the pillow and see shapes. Colours.  
A torso. Not much else. Grey boxers, not prison issue. Maybe Hannibal’s. Blue eyes, the same ones that haunt him, paler blue lips that curl into a mirthless smirk.  
A darkly smiling ghost, still very much alive as he leans in a little further, rolling what’s left of his torso in a closer until he’s far too close to Frederick’s shaking form, icy eyes burning in to his face.  
  
“Boo.”


	8. Chapter 8

> Abel bites back his misgivings and places a light slap to Frederick’s left cheek. “Was that it?” Frederick’s more taunting than actually frustrated as he turns his head around, arching his back to present himself at a better angle with a knowing smirk. “I know you’ve got a little more than that in you, Abel. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you-” Frederick’s found his weakness and prodded it. It seems only fair to return the favour, and so Abel slaps the same place harder, entertained by how quickly the other man shuts up as he swallows a cry. If only he’d found that out in therapy. The skin under his hand slowly reddens to a particularly lovely pink. “…Better.”  
> “Glad to hear it.” He evens out the other side, and places a third blow slightly further down, deliberately landing it almost-too close to the sensitive flesh of the scrotum to force a shocked yelp from his mouth.  
> “Careful!”  
> “Guess I must have misinterpreted your earlier request for a little more.” Frederick’s protests stop as the sore skin on the back of his thigh’s held, body pressing into the touch unbidden as he moans, seeking the warmth from the extra contact and inadvertently displaying himself further.  
> “You are-“ A gentle press of his perineum causes his torso to buck. “-literally evil, Abel! And insane.”  
> “But I have three decades’ knowledge of all the body’s nerve clusters.” The small, pink hole he’s teasing with his finger being one of them. “Which you seem perfectly happy to accept as an exchange.“  
> Frederick’s reaction is exactly as planned: he presses backward, arching with a barely concealed whine as he attempts to impale himself on the forefinger that’s gently brushing him, just at the right angle for Abel to deliver a slap that stings his own hand to the already angry cheek. He howls a curse at that one, and there’s a moment of panic where Abel’s sure the small shakes wracking the body in front of him are from pain.  
> No. Well, partially, but he imagines the still-strong erection that’s subtly being stroked in front of him has a little more to do with it.  
> Pretty little pain slut.  
> “No.” He should have expected that moving Frederick’s hand unexpectedly off his own cock and pinning it to the mattress would have results, but the broken moan and surge of hips back against his own is- “No. How many times do you want me to hit you before you get off?” Having a goal should distract from the almost painful feeling of arousal in his own trousers.  
> “Five.”  
> “Is that all?” Five’s fine. Five means they both get off faster. Problematically, he’s enjoying the wanton, broken yelps. “I’m sure you could manage ten.”  
> “Ten.” Frederick agrees. His arms crumple under him after Abel’s sixth, and there’s a small muffled cry of a safeword. Abel stops, somewhat uncomfortably debating whether to try and reach over his halfnaked form to touch a shoulder when the little shit glances back at him, a sly smile on his sweat-flushed face. “Good. You can keep going.”  
> “Don’t play games in the bedroom, Frederick.”  
> “I’ll put the post-coital scrabble away then.”  
> “Post-coital? Very. Optomistic.” Abel punctuates each word with a progressively harder smack until he feels the palms of his hands snap backwards with his last one. They ache as he runs them up the red thighs in front of him again. “Frederick.” Frederick’s body, torso slumped into the mattress shudders at the sound of his name. “I think you could come just like this, don’t you?”  
> It’s a debate he’s not really expecting much more than a whimper of reply from at this point. He’s pleasantly surprised.  
> “No, I want-”  
> “What do you want, Frederick?”  
> “I want… you to use your hands.”  
> “What? To touch you? Stick fingers inside of you?”  
> “Touch.” Frederick’s monosylibilic at this point. “Either.” Abel’s got a surefire way to get him talking again.  
> “Say please.“ Frederick’s face probably has a little anger in there somewhere as he turns it, but he’s too distracted by the tear tracks on his flushed cheeks to acknowledge it. He’s still hard enough that the sheets under him are damp with precome, but he’s teary- receiving pain’s not a shared kink, and that must be blatantly obvious, because his face flushes further under Abel’s gaze and he visibly fights not to turn away as he manages the first letter.  
> “P…” More than either of them had really expected. “I’m not doing this.”  
> “It’s just a word, Frederick.”  
> “It’s a powerplay.” “And that’s exactly what you’re into, isn’t it?” The brushes of forearms against the sensitive sore flesh of Frederick’s thighs is deliberate, and causes a ragged breath as he finally strokes the long-neglected cock between his legs with one hand. “Pain. Being bossed around. All the things someone so high up and in power shouldn’t want, but can’t get enough of.” It’s a poor angle, not nearly enough room between the tensing thighs his arm’s trapped in to get any proper movement. Apparently his words are doing enough. “You told me all of that the first time I touched you. How you’d imagined being powerless-“ The word ‘powerless’ combined with a light touch to the beet-red skin of his arse is enough for Frederick to contract, crunching in on himself with a wrecked groan as he comes, moving backwards into Abel’s lap for a better angle as he keens his way through his aftershocks with gritted teeth.  
> It’s a test. Of course it’s a test. Everything with Frederick’s a test. He cares less about this one than normal.


End file.
